


Before Today Becomes Our Yesterday

by Holdt



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Crisis of Faith, Flash Fic, Hearing Voices, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempt, Telepathic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-10 21:34:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15957995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holdt/pseuds/Holdt
Summary: A friend challenged me with this prompt: "I never thought I'd find comfort in a Voice."This is what came to mind.Music Insp: Blink by Revive





	Before Today Becomes Our Yesterday

It's quiet and blue. So much blue.

 

There was a time Steve would have given both his dubiously good legs for a shade of blue so all-encompassing.

 

It's cold, under the ice. Any idiot could tell you that, and without throwing himself, along with a very expensive piece of military tech into the drink.  But what else is a man supposed to do, when all his reasons for fighting seem irrelevant, and the battle is done?

 

It’s a question Steve's asked himself so many times in his life that he supposes it's followed him into this.

This half-life, this waking death of crushing weight and immovable sapphire.

 

It’s not the cold that gets to him though - that stops after the first hour or so. It’s not even the fact that Steve’s finally decided to do what everyone’s told him to from the moment he came into the world—give up, and his stupid new body won’t take a hint.

 No, it’s the silence between the waves.

 

He starts with his catechisms... they keep him sane for a while there, all the Hail Marys and penitent prayers to...

 

To who?

 

To the god his mother taught him to honor with every breath, who sent him into the world with a body fit for beating, the god who took his mother in suffering and pain, the god who ripped away his good right arm, his only two good eyes, his _foundation_ , Bucky--

_No, Bucky!!_

 

All taken away. Because of his own pride.

_Please, I’ve had enough. Please, can I stop now? I’m beat; it’s over, and I’m_ **_done_** _, please!_

Do unshed tears matter? Did he gain power only to lose his ticket, lose his _soul?_

 

_Just one more time, I swear - I’ll never ask for another favor. Never send up anything but thanks. Just let me see him._

 

Yeah, he prays. God-fearing men pray hard, he was taught. _Steve_ prays hard.  He prays until it all turns to mush in his head and all he can do is laugh at himself, muscles locked and frozen, mind blazing on interminably.

He’d had a plan, when he saw the wide blue opening up underneath the plane, shining like a field of paste diamonds. He’d thought it was a _sign_ , don’t that beat all? He’d thought it was an Intercession, and maybe it had been, but not on his behalf.  
  
Nobody forced him into the water. No heavenly host had forced him to lift up his shield one last time (so he could look dashing, for the only person who ever gave a damn to look when he wasn’t worth the time of day). He’d laid himself down, duty done and he’d been _relieved_ to do it.

Relieved, to end it.

Is it any wonder, after everything he’s thought and done, that _this_ is the step to glory he trips on? He laughs, because God might love Brooklyn, but what does God care about some little hopped up faggot from DUMBO who can't even manage to be a real man?

 

Of course he’s not welcome wherever Good Home Bucky’s gone to.

 

So what does a man do, in this situation?

 

He thinks, and he prays _anyway_ ; he does whatever he can to stay sane.

 

The sound creeps in almost imperceptibly.

 

A thrumming flutter that can’t possibly be in his ears, something he’d think was a heartbeat if it weren’t so terribly rapid.  

 

_Please, not my mind too. Leave me something. Let me have the last of myself, at least._

 

A high pitched tone, full of energy and cheer.

 

"Daddy, look what I made!"

 

Steve's body tries to flinch. It's been _so long._ It’s been an eternity, since he's heard anything so sweet besides mournful whale song.

 

“No, Greta, I don’t _wanna go!_ I can help TOO! _I wanna stay with Dadeeee! Nooooo!”_

 

It would be shameful, if he thought it was real, to listen in on some stranger's kid like he had any right to their business. Still.

 

He waits... He waits...

Eventually, he convinces himself it's simple madness.

 

Until it happens again.

 

“Sorry, I’m sorry—I just wanted to see the maps, like you always say—“

_Hey! **Hey** buddy, can you hear me?_

“No, no I _know_ I’m not a cartographer Dad, would’ja _just listen_ for _ten—FIVE. Five_ minutes! _“_

 

No, the answer must be no. That would be too easy. Too _merciful_ , for Steve.

No reason, no context. No meaning beyond the emotion in the excitable words. Only what feels like a feather-light touch, the slimmest of connections.

 

"Hey Dad, I know you're busy, but if you could look over this conduit link for me—no. No, I understand. Right. No, I got it. Yup, got it all together."

_Better luck next time, slugger._

A sigh that feels so close, Steve wishes he could share in its warmth.

 

Steve doesn’t know the voice, doesn’t recognize anything about the owner of the voice beyond the disappointment he can hear, and the loss of the good health it had before. But he wishes…he dreams that he does.

 

"No, no it's fine. I know you'd be there if you could. I’m a _big_ boy. Can graduate college all by myself. Take your drive. Have fun. Think of me—ha! Or don't."

  _Below the belt, slugger._

 

Wait. College?

_Impossible._

Is it real? Is time passing so quickly? But it’s only been a handful of aborted breaths, only a scattered battlefield of eternities. Of course it's impossible... but then, so is Steve.

 

"Hey, it's me, again.”

_Hello? Hello! Can you… you can hear me?_

“As usual. You know, you should have stayed? Things are... going real well for me now." The voice no longer sounds sweet and eager to please. It's hard for Steve to even recognize it as the same owner, but the strange hitches, the verbal patterns match.

_And you've got a mean jag on, or close to, kiddo._ Slurring, amid the hitching pauses and ragged breaths. He sounds furious.

"You'd be _prou-oud_ ," lilted in a singsong manner too familiar to Steve. "No, you wouldn't, right? But everybody says so, even Obie. Probably doesn't surprise you that I don't want it, your sloppy seconds."

There's a giggle, then, a manic sort of glee that would send a shiver down Steve's spine if it wasn't currently a solid block of ice.

_Don't. Don't do that._

" _God,_ that feels _good_ to finally say, you know? No. You  _don't_ know, bu-uut it's not for lack of _trying_.  Who's reliable now, Dad?"

Steve thinks the sound of that laugh, jagged and broken, might just be the last burden he can take after all.

_Don't do it. Whatever you're planning, whatever you've planned, please_ **_don't._ **

"It's too bad--you should'a seen me...  Well, water under, right? So look, I don't wanna cut our little...little fete short here, but I just have one question, and then I _promise_ I'll leave you...in so much peace you wont believe it."

 There's a deep scraping whoop of a breath, before a desolate scream burns and echoes through Steve's mind.

_"Why didn't you TEACH me anything?!"_

 

_I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry._

He wishes he could meet the Voice. He wishes he could wipe the anger away with the cool blue that surrounds and cradles him. He wishes he could see the sky again, so he could pass hope along one more time, if only for a moment.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have no plans to continue this oneshot at present. It just needed out.
> 
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